Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (29 page)

It seemed almost a pleasure to face instead the problem of the woman following him outside. Repenting of his harsh words was not nearly as difficult as the prospect of facing his scattered congregation. Though words now were practically impossible.

He walked to the edge of the yard, aware of her presence a couple of steps behind him. Pausing near a clump of small, new-growth pines, he searched his mind for some way to broach the delicate subject.

“You are good with the children.” Perhaps if he skirted around the thorn, approaching it from a peripheral direction, it would be easier.

“They are good children.” She had come up next to him.

That comment took him by surprise, and he knew he looked it.

She added, “Don’t you think so, Reverend Sinclair?”

“I’ve never thought of it in quite that way.” He paused, considering his next words, then realized he was only trying to find a way to put himself in the best light. Old habits do indeed die hard. Somewhat harshly, he said, “I’ve always regarded them as more of a burden of responsibility.”

“How sad—for you as much as for them.”

There was real sadness in her statement and no judgment that he could discern. “I was wrong for what I said in the barn,” he said suddenly.

She shrugged. He sensed she’d heard a lot worse, but he did not want to be let off so easily. “I’m in a very confused state of mind these days. I won’t bore you with all the details, but . . . I . . . just . . .” His reluctance had less to do with boring her than it did with his sheer inability to bare his soul.

“Say no more, Reverend Sinclair. You have been through a terrible tragedy. I would be surprised if you were anything less than confused and hurt.”

“I am the blame for my wife’s death!” he blurted. He refused to accept Liz’s reprieves. He jerked his head around as if daring her to exonerate him. “I am a miserable specimen of . . . of . . . anything! I lashed out at you in the barn because I did not want to confront the wretch that I am. You cannot know what I have done, how I cared only for myself, how I drove everyone away, how my wife would have sooner risked death by returning to Boston than to spend another minute with me—” With a horrified gasp he stopped. Two factions fought desperately within him— one that wanted to lay bare his miserable soul, to cut out his very heart and cast it upon the ground to be trampled upon. Yet the other wanted to cling to some vestige of the façade of holiness he once had. He turned away from her in shame, as if she had rebuffed him. If only she would!

Finally he went on, attempting to salvage the skewed conversation— as much for her sake as for his, since she surely had no desire to be sucked into the tangled mess of his life. “You came here seeking help, but look what you found—a pathetic situation, to say the least. Made even more unforgivable because since you arrived I never thought to inquire of your own difficulties—that is, what you wished help for.”

A little smile invaded her lips. “Yes, my woes did rather fade by comparison.”

“But surely they must have been serious for you to brave the storm?

You must have been out in it for days.”

“Hannah was very sick, and your wife had helped her before. I thought she, of all people, would accept me.” She paused, looking down at her hands clasped in front of her. She was perhaps uncomfortable at the pointed statement, “she, of all people,” but she said nothing to amend it.

“Rebekah would have helped you. Against my will, of course.” A hint of levity in his tone softened the statement.

Trying to keep it in that vein, she replied, “I hoped you would not be home.”

“But I was.” He sighed, as if the moment of levity was too much of a strain.

“And you did accept me.”

“I let you in my home.” His words in the barn returned painfully. “I am not fit to accept or reject anyone.”

“Well, I am grateful for what you have done.” Her eyes skittered up to meet his, then jerked away again. He knew that unspoken question was rising once again.

What would he do with her now?

“Would you care to tell me something of your situation, Liz? My intent is not to pry. It is just that . . . I am not sure what I can do for you. And what you wish.”

“I have left my former . . . uh . . . life. But doing so has made me a runaway slave, a fugitive. Taking me in has, I’m afraid, made you a felon.”

“Bah!” Some of Benjamin’s old fire momentarily returned. “I do not hold with slavery. It is an abomination. I do not consider myself bound by any laws concerning it. Besides, one of the few applaudable acts of the Mexican government was to abolish slavery.”

“But you and I know that the Mexican government turns a blind eye to the issue where Texas is concerned.”

“Nevertheless, I still stand by my own beliefs.” It seemed to be the only belief he could stand by for the moment. “Yet regardless of how I feel, I do understand your position. Will your master be looking for you?”

“Yes, but I don’t think he’ll take me to be crazy enough to go deeper into the frontier.”

“That was rather an insane move,” he said wryly.

“I believed it was my only chance. He knows nothing of my acquaintance with you or Rebekah, so he’d have no reason to suspect I have come here. He will think I’ve gone to one of the ports. When he doesn’t find me there, he might assume I found sea passage.”

“Your plan does have merit.” Indeed, he thought it was desperate and foolhardy but probably her only option. He gazed at her for a brief instant and remembered the noble pride she had worn like a battle shield that day in San Felipe. He thought of her trudging forty miles through a storm, holding a sick child, fending off the many dangers of the wilds. He had wondered before what kind of woman she was, and he did so again, but in a new light. As words like
courage
and
tenacity
sprang to his mind, admiration formed a lump in his throat. And suddenly he was embarrassed by the frank awe he knew must be dominating his expression.

She must have been embarrassed also because a bit of pink rose in her cheeks. He directed his gaze into the woods beyond the yard.

“That is my situation,” she said. “My child and I are homeless unless I return to that other life. But I will tell you, Reverend Sinclair, now that I have made the break, I don’t think I can go back to it. I
know
I can’t go back to it. I believe I would rather die than return to it. I stayed in the first place only because Maurry threatened the life of my child, but I now see that it did not help her. She became sicker each day I was there. Finally I decided she was going to die either way.”

“I am so sorry.”

She mistook his words. “Of course I know I can’t stay here.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, Reverend Sinclair—”

“Before we say more, may I ask that you not call me reverend?”

“Are you no longer a reverend?”

“I don’t know what I am anymore. But taking all into consideration, I cannot bear that title. Mr. Sinclair, or even Benjamin, would do fine. Though I must add, I feel it improper for me to call you by your first name.”

“Are names so important, Rev—Benjamin?” Then she laughed, but he could see she was not really laughing at him. “I guess I shouldn’t question you. I’ve done the same thing myself.”

“You changed your name?”

“I took the nickname given me by one of the other girls. It better fit who I had become, or at least it helped me to forget who I once had been.”

“And what of now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor do I.” He paused, giving the matter some thought. He saw now that her story was not as simple as it appeared, especially not as simple as a judgmental preacher had wanted to believe it was. Ironically, it now appeared as if their stories were not all that different—or at the least they had significant similarities. “How about if I call you Miss Liz?”

She hesitated only a moment, then with dark eyes flashing in resolution, she answered, “My name is Elise Toussaint. Call me Elise. At the moment I am feeling a bit rebellious against societal formalities.”

“Elise . . .” he said softly. All the terrible things he had once thought of her were oddly dispelled as he spoke the name. When God changed Jacob’s name to Israel and Simon’s to Peter and Saul’s to Paul, there had been great significance in the change. What would the significance be now to her? As simple as a new life?

And what of him? It was not lost on him that his particular name change was in reverse of the others. He was going from a name of honor to . . . to what, he feared to guess.

“Well, Elise, I don’t know if you’d consider it a boon or a burden, but you are welcome here.”

“That is kind of you, but . . .”

“Let me worry about what others might think. Perhaps I am feeling a bit rebellious myself. In any case, I could not with a clear conscience let you leave while your child is ill.”

“All right, then. Thank you.”

CHAPTER

36

H
AVING ELISE IN THE CABIN
helped tremendously, but it did not immediately solve all things. Five children were still five children with all the demands and noise thereof. And though Micah was civil, even pleasant to Elise, he continued to treat his father with great disdain.

Benjamin’s patience with the boy was thinning. It was bad enough to bear his own self-reproach, but to have it heaped further upon him by his son every chance the boy got made the weight upon Benjamin’s shoulders nearly staggering. His precarious forbearance nearly snapped once again when he went to the barn and found the cow had not been milked. He’d reminded Micah about it over an hour ago.

Not seeing Micah anywhere about, Benjamin set about the task himself. Fuming the entire time, he was surprised the cow did not kick him soundly for his fierce tugging at the animal’s teats.

As he was leaving the barn with the pail of milk, Micah chanced to be ambling up the path from the creek.

“Where have you been, boy?” Benjamin accosted him the moment he came into sight.

“Down by the creek.” Micah’s words were clipped, tight, as if he doled them out like precious stones, stones that could at any moment be cast in anger.

“Who gave you leave to go to the creek?” Benjamin demanded.

“I just wanted to go.”

“And what of your chores?”

“You got Elise now to take Ma’s place. You don’t need me.” Micah’s sneer managed to hold meaning beyond his words.

“Don’t take that tone with me!”

Micah’s eyes narrowed and his lips curled. “You gonna stop me?” he dared.

“Why, you—“ Benjamin jerked his hands up to grab the boy, but he forgot he was holding the pail of milk. It swung up, not only spilling the milk but sending most of it splashing into Benjamin’s face.

Momentarily consumed by rage, Benjamin tossed the pail wildly into the air, not really intending to strike his son, but it did none theless, glancing off Micah’s forehead. Unperturbed by Micah’s stunned cry, Benjamin continued with his initial intent. He reached for the boy. Micah, not seriously injured, sidestepped to the left, out of his father’s grasp. But Benjamin anticipated the maneuver and reached with his right arm, his hand catching hold of the front of Micah’s shirt. Micah wrenched left and right to free himself, but Benjamin held fast. It flittered through Benjamin’s mind that his thirteen-year-old son had grown several inches without his noticing and was nearly his father’s height—a fair match in a fight if, God forbid, it should come to that.

But anger drove Benjamin—and Micah, too, for that matter—not practicality. He swung up his free hand to box Micah’s ears. Micah blocked the blow with a surprisingly strong arm. For a brief instant it looked as if the son might do more. His fist was curled tight, and his eyes flashed with intensity. The two stood glowering at each other almost eye to eye.

Benjamin was the first to back off. Hands shaking, he loosened his fingers from their grip on Micah’s shirt. He knew that in another minute one of them would have hurt the other. He knew his son wanted desperately to strike him, and he could not guess why the boy had restrained his obvious thirst for violence. Benjamin also knew he would have later regretted striking his son, but he was not so certain Micah would have regretted hurting his father. Yet neither of them
had
landed any blows. That was something.

Micah spun around and walked away. Knowing it was a mistake, Benjamin let Micah leave without insisting on an apology for the boy’s insolence. He probably ought to have apologized himself for his own violent behavior. Yet he could not do it. He could not face another confrontation nor look upon the hatred in his son’s eyes. But in so doing, in letting Micah go, Benjamin realized with a stunning clarity that he had lost whatever fatherly control he had had over his son. Whatever stood between them was going to have to be dealt with man to man, not father to son. The realization left an empty ache in Benjamin, an ache that coursed through him, seeming to stir up all the other barely restrained aches. The weight of loss bore down upon him, and he had no defenses left to block its ravages. A noise escaped his lips, part gasp, part agonized sob.

“Benjamin?”

He swung around and saw Elise in the doorway of the cabin.

“I’ve lost him,” Benjamin said in a shaky, tormented voice. In the week Elise had been at the cabin, there had been far too many charged situations, mostly involving Micah but with the other children as well, for him to maintain any kind of façade, especially a holy one. Now with his emotions riding so close to the surface, it was impossible.

She crossed the yard and put her arm around his shoulders. She had never touched him before. He could not remember the last time
anyone
had touched him in kindness or comfort. The gesture had the effect of setting a hot iron to ice.

He cracked.

Tears erupted from his eyes, and a full clear sob broke through his lips. He struggled to keep it in check, but his efforts only made his shoulders heave. He hated being laid so bare, so vulnerable. Yet there was something right about it, too, though just then he could not for the life of him remember what it could be.